


and we're not even in vegas

by Morcai



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris - Cocciante/Plamondon
Genre: Drinking, Gen, accidentally married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcai/pseuds/Morcai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It starts, like many of the bizarre happenstances in Esmeralda’s life, with getting drunk"</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we're not even in vegas

It starts, like many of the bizarre happenstances in Esmeralda’s life, with getting drunk. Unlike many of those bizarre happenstances that occur when Esmeralda is drunk, she doesn’t regret it.

Most people would say she should, but Esmeralda has never held with shoulds, and certainly not in this case.

But stories should start at the beginning, so. This particular story of Esmeralda’s starts when she and Gringoire are exceptionally drunk, as is not particularly unusual on a Saturday night. Gringoire has nearly lost his favorite coat four times and is now clutching it tightly to his chest. Esmeralda is perched on a barstool, trying to read the messy lines he wrote along her forearm.

“You know what,” she says, giving up, “we should get married.”

“Why should we do that, ma muse?” is Gringoire’s reply. “It’s not as though we’re exactly compatipatipat…compatitat…suited.”

“We’re totally suited, we like the same booze and the same tv shows and we like to sleep on opposite sides of the beds, what’s wrong with this idea?” Esmeralda tends to get belligerent when her brilliant drunken ideas are shot down, and this time is no exception.

“I wasn’t talking about the…” Gringoire flapped a hand uncoordinatedly, “the living together stuff, that’s easy.” He took a moment to gather his incredibly scatterd thoughts and then, enunciating very precisely, said, “I was saying that we were sexually incompatible.” Having gotten the sentence out, finally, he smiled rather foolishly and raised his glass to her before downing it.

“You’re an idiot when you’re drunk,” Esmeralda said, conveniently ignoring the fact that she, herself, was more than a bit sloshed. “I didn’t mean, like, all legal and shit. We should get friendly married.”

Gringoire considered that proposal for a long moment before nodding gravely and raising his empty glass to her. “Friendly married!”

What followed was a blurry whirlwind of visiting twenty-four hour pawnshops, arguing their way down the middle of the street, heedless of cars honking at them, and somehow finding someone they deemed official and slurring out words about loving and cherishing and friendship.

———

Esmeralda woke up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers, a weird weight on her left hand and the comfortable warmth of Gringoire against her back. It was tempting to curl into her friend and fall back asleep, but the hangover didn’t seem inclined to allow that sort of behavior, and so she stumbled out of bed and into Gringoire’s kitchen in search of water and the aspirin he kept by the sink.

She didn’t even think about the weight on her hand until she was putting her drained glass into the sink and realized that she was now wearing a surprisingly simple silver band with a single blue stone set in it.

“The fuck?” she muttered. She had no memory of buying that ring, or of Gringoire giving it to her, since it was more his style than hers.

Sitting down for a moment at the tiny table in the center of the kitchen, she noticed a few official-looking papers lying crumpled underneath it. Retrieving them made her head swim a bit, but upon reading them over, she decided the momentary dizziness had been more than worth it.

Leaving the table and the possibility of aspirin behind, she sprinted back into Gringoire’s bedroom and shook him awake.

“Do you remember what we did last night?” she asked him when his muttering finally sounded coherent and he opened bleary eyes.

“Not…really?” he said, confused. “Why?”

Holding up the papers in her left hand, to show off the ring she said, “I think we might have gotten married by accident.”


End file.
